Poetry

Self-Portrait

Body
Less than two bucks
of mineral ash, absent a tail
to wag, whip, curl.

Heart
Clay trail through
hard woods. Plum colored
mushrooms tempt the unwary.

Soul
Red peony on a table
cluttered with books,
bills to pay, loose change.

Valerie L. Egar
Published in The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review

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Grandma Describes Love Using Birds

Love is a goose, says Grandma,
tossing Danny’s bread crusts
to geese at the lake’s edge.
We hover behind her,
afraid of beating wings.
They mate for life, unlike some people.
Danny and I knew the people she meant.

We woke to their yelling
about rent, the refrigerator’s lack—
one egg, sour milk, half-jar
of pickles. The front door slammed.
Mother drove us to school the next morning
and the mornings after that.

Grandma says, Love’ll make you crazy.
Drying dishes, Danny and I watched
the red bird fight its window reflection,
seeing Mother’s fury in its flaming feathers,
as she shadow-boxed, cursing Dad’s name.

Valerie L. Egar
Published in Lullwater Review

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Stacking Wood on Midsummer’s Eve

We stack the remains
of the felled maple by the porch,

the split wood and mown grass
green-scenting the evening.

The field blooms with sweet clover
and a thin peel of moon lights the sky.

Why linger on winter fires?
Look— fireflies are turning into stars.

Valerie L. Egar
Published in Yankee